


Frost Bite

by Duckgomery



Category: Rise of the Guardians (2012)
Genre: Human AU, Jack doesn't help, M/M, Necrophilia, Pedophilia, Pitch is a creeper, but i'm kind of not, i'm so, most other guardians mentioned in passing, so sorry for this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-25
Updated: 2013-01-25
Packaged: 2017-11-26 20:50:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/654291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckgomery/pseuds/Duckgomery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pitch lived a solitary, routine filled life. One day at the park changes that. It's a good thing that Pitch is a patient, patient man.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Frost Bite

**Author's Note:**

> I am sorry for this, yet I'm not.  
> Please check the tags, 'cause I'm warning you guys, this ain't going to end pretty.  
> I should not be aloud to write in public ever again, cliche be damned.  
> And once more, I'm so, so sorry.  
> Yet still kind of not.

If there was one thing Pitch knew about himself, it was that he was odd.

From a young age he’d been fascinated with the morbid. The very things that sent his peers into tears and scurrying to their parents for comfort and protection made Pitch elated, brought a smile to his usually apathetic features. This may have partly been due to the fact that he had no one to run to in times were reassurance was necessary. His joy was a twisted, convoluted way of dealing with the horrors of childhood.

None the less, he knew he was an oddity among the sheep. And this truth he embraced.

…

Little had changed as the years flew on by. As reclusive as ever, Pitch still managed to bring in enough money to get by. Such are the perks of working as a writer. He managed to translate his peculiarities and fascinations into twisting passages and nail biting cliff hangers. He had a bit of a cult following.

Life had become steady, constant.

Everything changed when he laid eyes on a boy by the name of Jack.

…

He’d been out at the park, simply sitting and watching the world pass him by. He had a fondness for people watching, how much their actions, expressions and posture betrayed their innermost fears, desires, and anxieties.

Pitch watched as a child, still plump with youth, squealed with delight as he was lifted off the ground by a man who had to have been related. The mirthful blue eyes of the young boy diminished the intensity of the older man’s but the similarity between them was still present.

The tousled hair, the pink face, the wide, toothless in places grin. All of it, together as such, was like the sun finally reaching through the curtains of night, illuminating and warming all it touched.

Pitch watched the little ray of light as he ran about, fumbling his way up and around the play equipment.

“Jack, it’s time to head home before your mother kills me.”

The sun had long since begun its descent across the sky, shadows growing in its further absence. He’s snapped out of his almost trance like state by the call which harnesses the attention of the little brunette boy who’d been the focus of his attention. Nose now pink with cold, Jack smiled and clambered over to his guardian, wrapping his small fingers into the older man’s own.

Pitch imagined that his skin would be as soft as fresh snow.

…

Weeks passed in a similar manner, except for the knowledge that if he went to the park, Jack might be there. He noticed a pattern on who would bring his little light on which days. He only appeared for a few hours in the afternoon on weekdays, and always with the man he spotted the first time. Weekends brought longer hours and the combination of a young woman, who could’ve only been his mother, and an old, smiling man.

As a man who prided himself on his observational abilities, Pitch noted certain things about these constant adults in Jack’s life. His mother, though young and in the realm of decent attractiveness, looked weary beyond her years, yet she still chased after her son when Jack tagged her. The elderly man was burly, arms heavy with muscle and ink. There was surely a story to be found here, but that would require further research, effort that Pitch decided would be wasted on that background character. And then there was the guardian from the first day.

The young man seemed to light up with Jack, and the more you looked, the more similarities Pitch found between the two. He hazards a guess that there was a falling out between the child’s parents, but at least they cared enough to both continue to be a constant presence in his life. Jack was a lucky kid.

                The park bench draped in shadows became Pitch’s over this period.

…

                He dreams of laughing boys lying in the snow. Face flushed, breath a mist in the air. Limbs spread wide and chest heaving. Pitch stands back and watches as a shadow falls upon these dream boys, as the flush takes on a different undertone, as the breaths become gasps.

                He always wakes up in a state after these blessed dreams, and feels nothing close to remorse or shame.

…

                As Jack grows, so does the world around him. Buildings are raised, trees torn down. The park, their park is but a shadow of its former self. Still, despite his newfound age and pseudo independence, Jack still visits, much to Pitch’s continued delight.

                Donned in a uniform from one of the local public schools, Jack would sprawl out beneath a tree, either completing his schoolwork, reading, or drawing in a well-worn notebook. Did he do well in school? What did he draw so intently? Would Jack enjoy his works? Un-answered questions danced about Pitch’s mind.

                Sometimes he swore that Jack’s eyes laid on him, as if the boy acknowledged his existence, recognised the man that’d basked in his glow all this time. It was a comforting weight that Pitch chalked up to being desire more than anything.

Who notices the shadows anyway?

…

He was late again.

Pitch sat, waiting on his bench until night had truly taken reign.

…

It had been noted by both his editor and his readers that the genre in which he wrote in was shifting. Twisting from his famed brand of horror to forbidden romance riddled with the macabre. When asked if this was due to a special someone in his life, he rewarded them with a condescending smile. Here these people thought they were entitled to know of his muse, his angel, his heart.

Jack was his and his alone. The boy just had yet to realise that.

…

“Do you mind if I sit here, Mister?”

Pitch couldn’t believe it. Here he was, his little Jack, standing right before him.

“It’s public space, why not.” He shuffles over to give the boy, his boy, space. He didn’t want to spook him now.

Jack plonked down and began rifling through his faded and fraying bag before settling on the sketchbook that Pitch would recognise from anywhere. Close up he noted the detailing that well and truly covered every last inch of the creased and scratched cover. His curiosity was overwhelming to finally see what it was that the boy drew, but he refrained.

“Aren’t you going to ask?” Not even looking up from the page before him, a smile tugging on the corner of his lips. His soft, bow like lips.

“What do you mean? By stating such an ambiguous question as that, I could be lead to believe that you desire me to enquire about any number of things, such as your name, how your day has been, what you’re doing here, is there really a man in the moon? And those are but a few examples.”

                He hadn’t meant to go on and on in the manner he had, but something about Jack, being so close he could almost feel the warmth radiating off him, could almost smell him, made him nervous. And unfortunately for Pitch, when he was nervous, he rambled.

                Despite this verbal upheaval, Jack laughed, white teeth glistening in the late afternoon glow.

                “Man, you like to talk, don’t you?”

                Pitch allows himself to chuckle along with the boy.

                “Just to lay things all out in the clear, I assumed you were interesting in this.” He indicated to the page open in his lap.

“It’s what people usually ask when I start working, I thought I’d just cut out the middle man this time.” And there was that smile, that impossibly bright smile, no teeth shown but that didn’t diminish it in the slightest.

                “Quite rude of you to assume something like that, don’t you think?”

                Jack rolls his eyes playfully before returning to his work.

                Pitch pulls out a paperback from his coat pocket, so as not to raise suspicion.

…

“Why are you reading your own book?”

Months had passed since that first, short conversation that had been shared.

Time had been kind to Jack, the weight of childhood having been shed to reveal the lithe body he’d one day have. He really was his father’s son, Pitch noted to himself though that didn’t mean he had nothing of his mother shining through. He was built more like her, which gave the illusion for youth well behind him.

“What do you mean by that, boy?” Pitch smiled as he turned the memorised page, eyes feigning fixation on the words he’d crafted.

“I looked up the writer you always seem to be reading and lo and behold, your ugly mug popped up.” His voice, as playful as ever, teased.

A shiver traced up his back. Jack had taken interest in what he was doing. He’d actively sought out information on his own volition. He’d found out who he was, his work.

Warmth started pooling in his gut.

“Well, my dirty little secret is out of the bag now.” He closes the book without holding his place. It wasn’t like the events occurring were a mystery to him.

“Not answering the question, Mr Black.” Lips quirked up into a smirk. He wondered how they’ll feel crashed against his own for the umpteenth time.

“Sometimes it’s nice to reflect on past endeavours, as pedestrian as the act may seem.”

Pitch adored the way Jack’s nose scrunched up when he snorted.

“You’re such a snob, you know that?”

…

The day he finally worked up the courage to ask Jack about the contents of his book came not too long after.

                “About time,” was all Jack said before handing over the heavy, bound pad. Contained within the illustrated covering where pages upon pages of what Pitch could only call masterpieces.

                He recognised the profiles and caricatures of Jack’s family, and how they had changed over the years.

                He saw the evolving skyline of the area. The school gates Jack had walked through day in, day out.

                He took in the images of creatures that he’d once breathed life in to with words, noting how true to his intended image they were.

                He saw himself. At first, a presence, a shadow in the background of the sketches of the park. A background character amidst the rows of trees. These eventually came to pages devoted to him. His eyes, nose, chin, hands, his everything had been drawn, over and over. The devotion and compassion behind each stroke of the medium was not lost to Pitch and he turned to look at the artist who’d managed to capture him.

                He didn’t expect to see Jack blushing, eyes wide and anxious. Pitch could taste the fear rolling off him.

                “I love them, Jack. They’re amazing” He hoped the boy could read the words beneath the words.

                Jack just smiled nervously, taking the offered book back.

                The blush travelled all the way to his ears and across the back of his neck.

…

                The boy in his dreams looked at him with hungry eyes.

                Pitch had long since become the shadows and was more than happy to indulge the writhing, panting mess.

…

Jack arrived before him.

                This wasn’t that rare, but the state Pitch found his Jack in made him concerned.

                Who dared to hurt, to damage what was his.

                Thumb brushing over the still darkening bruise, Pitch hadn’t realised he’d initiated contact until he felt Jack tense beneath his hand. This was short lived, before the boy, his boy, nuzzled further into Pitch’s palm.

                “You’re hands are nice and cold.”

                Wide, blue eyes pleaded the older man not to ask questions that the boy didn’t want to answer.

                Not yet at least.

                Pitch couldn’t have his Jack be anything less than perfect after all.

…

                “Surprise.” Jack pulled off his hood to reveal silver in place of the soft, warm brown that he’d worn since birth.

                “Looks great, Jack. How did the parents take it?” A chuckle tagged on at the end.

                “Dad’s overseas on business, and Mum flipped.” His smile was back to how it should always be, bright and mischievous.

                “The colour looks good on you. You’re quite the handsome boy, Jack.”

                Pitch feels Jack’s warmth as the boy presses to his side.

                “I know, you’ve told me before.”

…

                His Jack’s lips were far softer than he had ever dreamed they could be.

…

                It wasn’t long before they both agreed that Pitch’s place would be a better place to meet rather their park bench.

                What the two of them shared was not for the public eyes to behold.

                Pitch revelled in the fact that Jack’s moans, cries, and begging was for his ears and his ears alone.

                As they lay, sweaty and spent, Jack curls into his side, small, vulnerable, and starved.

                As long as he was hungry for more of what Pitch had to offer, he’d be back for more.

…

                The laughing, smiling, moaning, writhing, shuddering, wanton boy from his dreams no longer matched up right to the boy who’d one been their dopple-ganger.

…

                Jack had taken bounds in the way of confidence with their decrepit acts.

                The young man trailed kisses down the smooth expanse of Pitch’s chest, going lower and lower, and lower.

                Pitch looked down at the head bobbing between his legs and wished for the nervous, apprehensive child who used to blush at the mention of such activities.

                Jack pulled all the tricks he’d learnt in order to coax Pitch to arousal.

                Pitch simply wished for the inexperience once more.

…

                It was only in sleep that Jack still held the remnants of youth.

                It was only then that Pitch could find his heart swelling with the adoration that once came so easily.

…

                If only he could stay that way.

…

                It was a simple matter for Pitch to convince the boy, his poor fading boy, to cut ties with anyone who’d ask questions. This wasn’t as difficult a task as it could have been, due to rocky relationships on both parent’s fronts over the years.

                Jack was excited to be emancipated from the watchful and controlling reign that his parents had alternated with holding, and Pitch was more than happy to indulge him in what he craved.

                Quid pro quo.

…

                Jack lay to his left, face softly lit by the bedside lamp. His hair was tousled and still sticking to his forehead, roots beginning to show once more.

                Pitch trailed his fingers through the once pristine locks, letting his hands ghost over his Jack’s features.

                His jaw was sharp, cheekbones distinguished. Nothing of the child, once plump with youth, remained. That was, besides the sleeping expression etched into Jack’s face.

                Pitch’s hands moved lower, coming to rest around his Jack’s, his once perfect boy’s, neck.

…

                As the body beneath him got colder, as the once pink lips turned blue, as the face hardened into a mask of innocence that had long since been lost, did Pitch’s heart soar like it had all those years ago.

…

                His latest novel had been a critically acclaimed success. He’d taken the forbidden romance that had been prominent in his latest works and thrown in elements of the horror that had first gotten him noticed. His words wove twisting shadows and laughing boys who looked forward to futures they would never truly reach.

                When asked about the inspiration for this development, Pitch simply smiled.

…

Weeks turned into months, and months into years.

The posters that had adorned the face and information regarding a smiling boy who’d disappeared without a trace had long since faded or had been covered with more recent incidents.

A family had been brought together by the disappearance of their once cherished child, parents putting aside differences and past actions in order to comfort and attempt to numb the pain in their hearts.

This mattered not to Pitch, who had more pressing matters to attend to.

His boy, his Jack, was waiting for him at home after all. He couldn’t keep his little snow angel waiting now. Children weren’t known for their patience after all.


End file.
